


pretty toys and cold-blood killers

by badacts



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: M/M, spy AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-10-10 10:14:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10435434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badacts/pseuds/badacts
Summary: The Foxes are spies, and Andrew and Neil are still in love with each other even when they're pretending to be Russian criminals.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ilgaksu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilgaksu/gifts).



Running the surveillance van is generally considered the boring job, but Matt doesn’t mind it. He can people watch to some extent, and he has Neil here to keep him company in watching the screens. It’s quiet and requires no acting, which makes it preferable to being in Andrew’s position right now.

On Matt’s screen, Andrew is leaning back in his seat, cards held in one hand and a low glass next to the other. He’s pretending to be a Russian magnate with a taste for the dirtier side of capitalism and also for killing people he doesn’t like. He looks relaxed, swimming with sharks. Probably because he’s the deadliest predator swimming in these waters.

They’re well into the game in there when Neil says something low in a language that definitely isn’t English, and then, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“What?” Matt asks. He’s instantly alarmed, because it takes a lot to make Neil lose his cool – the last time he said something similar, he was bleeding out from a hole in his gut.  

Neil is already on his feet. “I’ve got to go in there.”

Neil is definitely not supposed to go in there. He’s only here in the van because of a concession on Wymack’s part, mostly because they’d all believed he’d find a way to get involved in the worst way possible if he weren’t included in an official role. Things have gotten a lot more complicated since he and Andrew started working together, including the frequency with which Neil gets bullet wounds.

“You can’t,” Matt says. “You’ve got your orders.”

“Do you really think I care?” Neil replies. “Andrew’s about to get his cover blown, and I can’t warn him from here.”

They couldn’t send Andrew in wearing an earpiece because everyone inside was searched for tech, so the only support they could provide was watching like this. “How do you know you won’t get him killed storming in there right now?”

“What would you do if it were Dan? Sit in your ass here in the van, or go?” Neil asks. Matt looks away from the screen to his face, taking in the brutal determination with which he looks back.

Matt and Dan are married, but he suspects mentioning that might not be worth the air he’d waste in the process. Whatever bond it is that Andrew and Neil have, it’s probably just as significant, as close and as unbreakable. He says instead, “Who did you see?”

“Old friend,” Neil says, mouth curving into a snarl that’s probably meant to be a smile. “Or something like that. Fuck, I can’t wear this.”

“I mean, unless you’re planning on running in there naked, you really don’t have an alternative outfit,” Matt says. They’re both wearing coveralls, so that if they do have to suddenly have an excuse for their presence here they can claim to be maintenance workers. It’s amazing how that excuse works, even at night. But Neil can’t go in amongst the glitzy dresses and dapper suits wearing them.

Neil looks down at himself dubiously. “Do you think that would work?”

God help them. “No, I do not think that would work!”

Thankfully for both of them, Matt’s eyes catch on the low black box under the bench seat then. “Wait, I was running a job with Allison out of this van last week. I think…”

Neil moves before he can finish the thought, dragging the box out and throwing it open. “Yeah, this will work.”

Matt has to turn away then, because Neil is stripping off without a single care for Matt’s presence. “Put a wire on, too.”

The outfit won’t be subtle, but it’s certainly going to do _something_.

 

* * *

 

This isn’t the kind of place Andrew is used to working – a bit too upmarket, with glittering chandeliers and rich carpet underfoot and a little too much gilded paint for anyone with good taste. However, he’s the only one on the team who can speak Russian like a native, or at least the only one on the team who isn’t recovering from a gunshot wound right now.

So he’s here in a very nice suit, drinking very expensive booze, and about to fleece some very rich and dangerous people out of their money in the hope that it will make them willing to do business with him. Or, at least, the man they think he is.

Andrei Markov is a powerful player in the international black market. He sells all manner of things, including people. He also doesn’t really exist outside of this particular poker game with these particular people, other than a few phone calls and meetings between proxies. Men like Markov don’t bother to meet unless they are very sure it’s worth their while.

The game is just a front for the backroom business they’ll do later. It might not even happen tonight. All that matters is that the others are finally meeting Markov in person, and that Andrew will convince them all that he’s the kind of man worth exchanging money and favours with.

His hand isn’t great, but it’s very hard to beat Andrew Minyard at cards. He’ll lend a little of that skill to Markov tonight.

There’s all manner of people around the table tonight, all clad as elegantly as he is, with their own taste in alcohol being splashed around generously to them and their various filigreed hangers-on.

The man Andrew is here for is Alexei Steiner, who is as Russian as Andrew is but has still made a name for himself amongst the Bratva. Steiner is a well-built man with keen dark eyes in an ascetic face – intelligent, certainly - but his good luck charm is just as tacky as the others in her glittering scarlet dress cut almost to her belly button.

Andrew is busy watching the other players and sipping his whiskey when a voice from the gate to their playing area interrupts all of them.

“Markov,” calls Steiner’s man. “This one says he belongs to you.”

Of fucking course it’s Neil Josten. Andrew raises a hand and crooks a finger for him to come closer, but the man stops him before he can go far.

The hired muscle goes to pat Neil down, hands sliding along the outside of Neil’s arms in a smooth motion. Neil looks unbothered by it, shifting his weight to accommodate the searching. Despite himself – despite being Markov, not himself – Andrew stiffens.

Neil notices straight away, of course. “It’s alright, baby. I know they have to do it.”

That earns Andrew everyone’s attention, eyes going to his tight posture and the curl of his hand on the edge of the table. The muscle looks between him and Neil once, and then removes his hands. “You’re fine.”

Well.  There are some bonuses to being a Russian crime boss after all.

Neil slinks around the table, drawing most eyes. They’re less admiring than they are bemused – Neil doesn’t meet the dress code in any sense, in tight black leggings spangled with glitter and an oversized shirt that exposes his collarbones where it usually fits to a completely different kind of anatomy. Andrew recognises the outfit.

Neil’s wearing Allison’s custom headset too, made to look like a series of cuff earrings marching down the arch of his ear. That probably means that at least Boyd knows that he’s here and not in the van where he should be.

“You’re a little underdressed,” Andrew points out in Russian as Neil draws closer, because he can’t resist. 

Neil pouts, blinking at Andrew. “What, do you want me to put more clothes on?” He drops himself into Andrew’s lap, almost a parody of the faux-elegant perch of Steiner’s toy on his knee, and if Andrew hadn’t guessed how they were playing this he certainly knows now.

“I wanted you to stay in our room,” Andrew continues, in Russian still but lower as he curls a hand around Neil’s side to balance him there. He’s careful – under his fingers is where a bullet ripped through Neil’s side only a few weeks ago.

“I got bored,” Neil replies, the pout still firmly in place. He leans closer to Andrew’s ear, all show, bowing his head so that the line of his throat catches the light. It’s all an elaborate disguise, feigning desire even as what he actually whispers in Andrew’s ear is, “Sokolov is here. I saw him on the cameras.”

Well, then. That’s about to add another element of interest to the game. Sokolov doesn’t know who Andrei Markov is, but he sure as fuck will recognise the blonde man playing cards as Andrew Minyard.

He’ll recognise Neil, too, even with him dressed like a bit of rough who belongs on a street corner, not a high-class club like this one. Andrew turns his head, putting his mouth at the level of Neil’s jaw. There’s no acting in the subtle give that that evokes, Neil’s head rolling gently to expose his throat.

“Boyd?” Andrew asks against skin, barely a whisper.

Neil’s head tilts back, and he presses a smile into Andrew’s hair. “Watching. We’re alone.”

They’ll have to make their own way out. Andrew can’t stay longer, not without risking his cover and both of their lives. Thankfully, he has a valid reason to excuse himself right here in his grip, if that’s how he wants to play it.

“Shall we play?” Steiner asks, with a hint of a sneer. The comment pretends to be aimed at all of them even as Steiner stares directly at Andrew – or, more correctly, the placement of Neil in Andrew’s lap, and Andrew’s hand on Neil’s waist.

Andrew looks back at him, utterly dead, and waves a hand over the table. “I’m not stopping you, Alexei.” He makes sure his expression says _go on. Say it_. It’s less a threat than it is a promise of violence, and it’s got nothing at all to do with who Markov is meant to be.

Steiner’s gaze flickers and then moves back to his cards. Neil, who hadn’t spared him a look, relaxes a fraction when his attention is diverted. He’s not afraid. Even healing, he’s more than ready for a fight.

Andrew isn’t interested in that. Too much collateral damage even for his tastes, and he doesn’t have the information he needs just yet. He doesn’t just want to kill Steiner. He wants to tear his empire to pieces in the process, the drugs and the laundering and the trafficking.

He says to Neil, in a louder murmur, “You should go back upstairs.”

“I can’t go by myself.” Andrew can’t stand the whine in his voice, sickly sweet. It turns Neil into a pretty fool, more than the doe eyes and the way he’s clutching at Andrew. “There are all kinds of people here. Something might happen to me. Then where would you be?”

Either living a much more peaceful life, or dead and in his grave. “Do you need me to walk you?”

Neil’s hand curls proprietarily around the top of Andrew’s thigh. Andrew gives no reaction to it, which is easy when there’s metal as well as fabric between Neil’s palm and his skin.

“I guess what I’m saying is,” this whispered with a shadow of Neil’s proper smirk, cold and hard as stone, “Is that a gun, or are you really just happy to see me?”


End file.
